


You and I.

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Post Reichenbach, fic based on art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 16:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Yes.</em><br/>A series of works based on <a href="http://reapersun.tumblr.com/tagged/30+day+otp+challenge/chrono">reapersun's 30 day OTP challenge</a> art (written with permission!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> _Ahhhhhhh_ , okay, so. Let's see if I can complete a challenge. The ideas are all there, so I just have to write the things.
> 
> Right.
> 
> I just want to say really quickly that reapersun is just unbelievably talented and she's a really sweet person for giving me permission to write for her completed challenge. I absolutely adore her Sherlock and John and I'm full to the brim with ideas for this. The first entry is a bit short, but I'm hoping the others will be longer!
> 
> [Here is the art this entry is based off of.](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/35848470628/30-day-otp-challenge-day-1-holding-hands-day)

All he’d planned on doing was getting some bloody bread.

That was absolutely it. Tesco, bread, home. He hadn’t had any left for breakfast in the morning and he was off work, so a bit of air, a brisk walk, and he’d be set for tomorrow.

The whole trip went well enough - he got the bread, even treated himself to a gallon of stupidly expensive juice that Harry always goes on about, and walked back home. The bloody _sun_ was even shining.

Then he got home, unlocked the flat, missed the small trackings of mud leading to the stairs, and headed up to the sitting room without a second thought. He didn’t think about the adjacent door or look into the lounge before walking into the kitchen to toss the bread on the counter and the juice in the fridge. He let himself be routine and normal and he didn’t think about looking for details because that isn’t what he _does_.

Now, of course, he’s regretting it, because having a bit of premonition might have made this part a bit less difficult.

John can feel his hands shaking - along with his chest, seemingly incapable of taking in a steady breath - and he can’t work his jaw enough to get out a single word. Sherlock is waiting for something, his eyes bright and wide, hair curling down in tendrils, too long and beginning to cover his eyes, lip split, eyes dark. He hasn’t said anything either, though. He hasn’t said a single word, and that, John is almost positive, is the reason his heart is pounding twice as fast as it ought to.

The proof isn’t conclusive enough, or... Something like that. Sherlock used to go on and on in situations that didn’t make any sense - there wasn’t enough evidence to support the hypothesis and that’s really horrible right about now, because good, solid proof would be just perfect right now.

_Solid._

Still trembling, John lifts his hand and gives a small shove to Sherlock’s shoulder and _oh, god, he’s right there and he’s... real, solid flesh, alive and right in front of me and **alive**._

And then, before he even thinks about it, he’s retracting his hand, and then pulling back his arm, and his fist collides with Sherlock’s face with a shout of, “You _prick!”_

The bastard doesn’t even flinch. His eyes shut and he stands still until John’s knuckles meet his nose, and then he exhales sharply as blood drips onto his lip and John stares, gawping. The previously deceased reaches up and wipes roughly over his lip before making eye contact with John, who’s wavering and breathing heavily, with gathering tears that are angry and despondent and _overjoyed_ , for fuck’s sake, but he’s so _angry_.

John pulls his arm back again and propels forward, but Sherlock acts this time and grabs his fist, all too aware that if he allows John to go at him again there will be a time after that, and after that, again and again and again. The counteraction makes John’s breath catch in his throat and he shakes his head, fist twisting in Sherlock’s grip but never getting free. His other hand come up but Sherlock takes hold of that one as well, gripping tightly to both of them until John loosens the tension in his fist and Sherlock can twine his gloved fingers through the spaces in John’s bare ones. His grip is bordering on painful and he won’t stop _staring_ at John like he’s the most guilty person on earth, and it’s too much because John can hardly _breathe_. He has to remind himself to let air in, and he takes in a gasp of breath that comes back out as a dry sob.

John ducks his head to get away from Sherlock and his blood and that look, hoping to calm himself down even the slightest. All he succeeds in is taking too many short breaths in a short period of time, and he’s dizzy and quite sure that he’s hiccoughing, only adding to the shaking of his bent form.

“John,” Sherlock whispers - his voice rasps and it sounds as though he hasn’t spoken since their phone call three years ago.

_Three years._

“You - ” John gasps, inhaling in a quick burst, “you were dead.”

“You know better than that,” Sherlock tells him. It has the same tone as an admonishment, with concealed layers of apologies that he still hasn’t spoken.

John digs his fingernails into Sherlock’s gloves and lets his head rest against his friend’s chest.

“I hate you,” John chokes out.

Sherlock keeps his hands tight. “And I know better than that.”


	2. Day 2: Cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this challenge is obviously not going to be 30 days long. Probably a lot longer. I tend to juggle a lot of writing projects at once, and I'm working on about four fanfics and this series. We'll see how long this takes!
> 
>  
> 
> [Here is the art this entry is based off of.](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/35900378786/30-day-otp-challenge-day-2-cuddling-day-1)

When John has calmed - fists unclenched and resting at his side - and Sherlock has cleaned up - blood and dirt washed from his face - he asks John to accompany him to Scotland Yard. There are matters of business to finish clearing up and despite the chances of John’s safety being affected by his return being extremely small, he’s not keen to leave his friend alone in the flat for multiple reasons. It takes convincing, but John begrudgingly pulls on his coat and shoes and follows Sherlock out to a cab.

They sit in silence for the entire ride and the walk to Lestrade’s office. Other Yarders glance at them as they walk through, eyes lingering on John’s stoic expression. John doesn’t look at Sherlock; Sherlock doesn’t look at John.

They both, however, look at Lestrade, who watches John fearfully when the doctor finds out that Lestrade has known for a full three months about Sherlock being alive. John sets his jaw and stares at the wall and inhales deeply, exhales slowly, and doesn’t ask  _why_ , because he imagines the answer will make him want to punch Sherlock again. He sits in one of the chairs in front of Lestrade’s desk, curling and uncurling his fist, and listens to the two other men talk about a man named Moran and arrest records and more dead people than he cares to hear about.

Sherlock stands close to him and he wants to move away but that would be childish and he’s just holding a grudge. He’s angry because he grieved and shouted and threw things for nothing, because Sherlock is standing right next to him and he looks a right wreck and he still hasn’t apologised.

“They should be getting back to me within the hour,” Lestrade says to Sherlock, but he’s looking at John. John gives him a Look and he swallows tightly and glances back at Sherlock. “I’ll text you as soon as we know; you’re free to go.”

Nodding, Sherlock pulls his gloves from his pocket and starts slipping them on as he heads towards the door. He pauses, eyes on John, before he steps out.

“Go with him,” Lestrade says softly.

John glares up at him. “No one told me,” he spits out. “Everyone here knew and not a single person let me know.”

“He wouldn’t let us,” Lestrade promises. “Said something about protecting you. Didn’t make sense until we started with all this Moran business. He saved our lives, John. Go with him.”

Continuing to glare, John huffs and pushes up to stand, a nerve twingeing in his leg. “He’s hardly said a word to me; hasn’t even said sorry. I’m not dealing with him right now.”

“He’ll be waiting for you out there,” Lestrade tells him. The corner of his lip twitches and he’s holding back a smile, John can tell. John narrows his eyes and turns around, storming out of the office.

Sherlock is waiting for him, he finds when he get out to the kerb.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” John asks, crossing his arms tightly against his chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.

“Besides Baker Street.”

The detective deflates slightly at that. “Yes,” he repeats.

“Good,” John mutters. “You’re going there.”

“I’ll pay for the cab,” Sherlock tells him after a moment.

John nods curtly and stares at his feet, waiting for Sherlock to hail them a cab.

He does it in record time, as always.

-

About three minutes into the ride, John can feel himself nodding off. Car rides had always made him drowsy, and with the day’s added shocks he’s already exhausted, and it’s only coming up on four in the afternoon. He allows his eyes to fall shut, head falling and jerking back up as the cab moves and shakes him back into slight wakefulness. After another few minutes, he’s shifting downward, sliding sideways, until he feels his shoulder make contact with something angular and bony. That’ll be Sherlock, he figures, and he’s just so tired, he doesn’t care. John’s head tips and ends up resting against his friend’s shoulder, and he lets himself drift off and be  _neutral_  for five minutes.

Sherlock watches him for a moment, the slack look on John’s face, the relaxation in his form. He’s laying comfortably against Sherlock’s side, breathing soft and unmeasurable, and Sherlock swallows tightly, because he looks about five years younger, minimum, and because he knows the reason John is so tense and so worked up is himself.

He ought to be getting sleep too, he knows; he hasn’t had a proper rest in too long - a time long enough that John would probably force him to bed, had this been three years ago. Sighing, Sherlock slumps against the cab’s seat and leans against John in turn, softly dropping his head against the doctor’s. He won’t sleep, not here; he has to let John know when to get out. He does close his eyes, though, and rest for just a moment, because he knows that John won’t be angry with him forever, and that they will be fine, and that John is glad he is back.


	3. Day 3 - Watching a Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can thank free time in chemistry for this entry.
> 
> [Here is the art this entry is based off of.](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/35974813928/30-day-otp-challenge-day-3-watching-a-movie)

For just over a week and a half, Sherlock has been staying in a flat - he wouldn't even really venture to call it a flat, actually. It's a box. A filthy box, at that. The wallpaper is coming off in strips, the carpet is from the seventies  _at least_ , and he's positive that he's just seen a cockroach run off, and they aren't even indigenous to England as pests. It's horrid and not much different than the conditions he lived in the past three years.

He hasn't heard from John, either, and that's all too much like the last three years. 

Any attempt to speak to him, Sherlock figures, would be pointless. He'd beenlivid - he'd hardly spoken for the entire time Sherlock had been there. He moved on - didn't want to see Sherlock, speak to him, have anything to do with him. It was... understandable, Sherlock thought. So he didn't try to contact John. It would only make matters worse.

In reality, for a week and a half, John has been moping around his own flat. Mrs. Hudson has tried to talk to him about it - to no avail - and Mycroft has even made an attempt to contact him, which is worse than Sherlock, really. He wants to erase the Holmes's from his thoughts, memories, and the face of the earth.

He misses Sherlock, and hates himself for it.

\--

A day after two weeks of Sherlock's return to the living, he's shoving things around in his flat and wondering if there's a way he can get a microscope from St. Barts. John probably got rid of his; there wasn't any reason for him to keep it, or none that he knew of, and asking him about it isn't an option anyhow. Sherlock kicks an empty box aside and crosses his arms with a huff, lamenting silently over the condition of  _everything_. There's a knock on the door that doesn't sound like Mycroft and therefore must be the landlord, and he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. Stepping over a pile of yellowing newspapers, Sherlock walks to the door and wrenches it open with an irrtated " _What?"_

John.

His angry expression softens and his eyes widen in slight, back straightening, and he swallows tightly. John has a bag clutched in one hand, a DVD case under his arm, and he's staring at the groud, lips pressed together tightly.

"John," Sherlock eventually vocalises. John glances up from the ground.

"Can I come in?" he asks. It's almost meek.

"Of course," Sherlock mutters.  "It's - ah. Messy. Sorry." John nods and Sherlock steps aside, holding the door open for him.

He's brought food, Sherlock realises. Food and a DVD. Movie night, just like he used to be forced into every other week. The doctor walks in and over to the sofa, drops the bag on the table, and manoeuvres around a few boxes and over to the old television set. Sherlock is suddenly glad that Mycroft had gotten him a DVD player when he supplied furniture.

"Your food's in the top box," John tells him. Sherlock picks it up and looks inside. Chinese.

"You remember my order," he comments offhandedly.

John huffs in amusement. "You ate the same thing every other day for a year and a half, and I called for it every time. Of course I remember." He stops talking and shakes his head. Sherlock lowers himself onto his ratty couch awkwardly as if it isn't his and takes a plastic fork from the bag on the table.

When he finishes setting up the movie, John joins Sherlock, sitting slightly too far away for this to be familiar, for it to be friendly. He takes his food and opens it up, sitting too straight and too stiff. Sherlock shifts and pushes his food around, staring into the container instead of at the movie. He doesn't even realise what it is until the first series of gunshots.

Bond. He brought  _Bond._

Sherlock snaps his head up and narrows his eyes at the television. John _knows_ how much Sherlock hates bond. He did this on purpose; like a peace treaty, as odd as it seems.

Sherlock's lip twitches and he sniffs, stabbing at a shrimp and wrinkling his nose at all the fallacies in just five minutes of the film.

"Completely illogical," he mumbles through his food. John rolls his eyes and stares at the screen. Sherlock raises his voice a tad. "The chances of either of them surviving that and him proceeding to  _take her home_ after the ordeal - "

"Statistics don't matter in a work of fiction," John interrupts.

"Forget statistics, then, and have a look at the moronic writing! The screenwriter clearly has no idea - !"

"It's just for entertainment - !"

"Absolutely ridiculous and thoughtless - "

"But it's _Bond_ , Sherlock!" John exclaims. He watches the man beside him as he goes on and on about  _literal impossibilities!_ and he's just so animated and stupid and  _alive_ that John starts to laugh. 

Sherlock cuts off and stares at John as he laughs, hand on his chest, shoulders shaking. A grin stretches from one ear to the other and Sherlock starts laughing too, a hand coming up to cover his eyes.

"Oh, god," John manages through giggles. "What - what are we doing?"

Sherlock has to take a few slow breaths before he can respond. "I don't know," he admits. His hand drops and John can see the grin on his face lighting all his features, eyes crinkling and practically shining. Sherlock turns to him and his grin softens into a fond smile, directed right at John.

_I'm sorry_.

Sherlock exhales softly, apologies colouring his expression. "Can I come back home, John?"

John reciprocates his smile. "After you cut that damn hair," he says, giving Sherlock a shove to the shoulder.

_You're forgiven._


	4. Day 4 - On a Date (crimesolving is a date!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up a lot longer than I intended, but there was a lot to fit in, in order to make the context make sense. Ugh, these cutes. I'm gone.
> 
> [Here is the art this entry is based off of.](http://www.reapersun.tumblr.com/post/36057951361)

They receive their first call about a case at an oddly reasonable eight in the morning.

Some things have started returning to normal; Sherlock lives in 221B again, he lays about in his dressing gown, stays up at unearthly hours. All the usual things that John isn't used to anymore. There's still a lot of buzz around Sherlock's return, and some media still sits around their door every other day. However, there hadn't been any calls about cases or developments for the week Sherlock had been back in the flat. Until today, of course, and he tries not to rush John into swallowing most of his breakfast whole, tapping his foot and glancing at his watch and phone every few seconds. John smirks; the power he currently wields over the detective is extremely enjoyable.

He still eats rather quickly, admittedly quite excited about getting back into the thick of things after so long. After pulling his shoes on and grabbing his coat on the way out the door, Sherlock ushers him into a cab almost immediately upon stepping outside.

They settle into their seats and Sherlock tosses out the address of the crime scene, and then pulls out his phone to text Lestrade. John gives him a minute or so before piping up.

"So," he says, rubbing his hands against his thighs. Sherlock glances over at him. "You know, I still don't know how you - I mean, what'd you even do for the whole time you were gone?"

A brow raised in mild surprise, Sherlock lowers his phone and turns to John. "The whole time?"

John nods. "The whole time. Tell me everything."

Pocketing his phone, Sherlock purses his lips. "Well, it started here, of course."

\--

When they show up at the crime scene - the rest of the Yarders already there and sneering at them from the start - Sherlock hardly says a word to Lestrade before continuing his story, John watching him with wide, almost childishly intrigued eyes. They waltz right in, Anderson and Donovan eyeing them curiously as they stroll by.

"... Faking the credentials was easy enough - "

"Mmhmm," John hums, nodding.

" - Of course, convincing him that they were legitimate was a bit more difficult." Sherlock slips under the police tape and holds it up for John to duck under.

"Well, you've always been Mr. Charm," John points out. Sherlock smirks at him and they walk inside, Lestrade hurrying to catch up with them.

"Not to this one," Sherlock says. "He nearly shot me."

"No, come on," John scoffs. "You're not serious."

"I'm glad I don't have the scars to prove it."

\--

The evidence they gathered brings them to Bart's with three vials of testable material. John walks quickly by Sherlock's side, almost having to jog to keep up with his long strides, but he hardly minds. He's enthralled at this point, caught up in Sherlock's tale of his time away. Molly greets them when they walk in, and while John would usually at least reply, he's only attentive enough to give a quick wave and smile in her direction. Sherlock leads them into the lab and slings off his coat onto a nearby stool, sweeping over to prepare microscope slides.

"Wait, wait," John interrupts, waving a hand around. "No, you've lost me now. Tanzania?"

"Yes; just below Kenya - Africa, John."

"Don't be smart with me, I know where it is!" John grins. "I don't understand _why_ you had to go."

Sherlock shakes his head and fits a slide cover on top of his mud sample. "Because the slave leader fled from Zambia and I had to follow him."

"He worked for Moriarty?"

"Precisely."

"All right, you've got me again; so the slave leader left Zambia, and you followed, and met up with what's-her-name - before or after you caught him?" John plops down in a chair beside the microscope and waits for Sherlock to sit next to him. He joins just a moment later, instinctually fitting the slide into place on the microscope's stage.

" _Cataval_ was her name, and before," Sherlock informs John. "She knew Dodoma and its slums better than I did, and made it easier to catch Thulani."

On her way to join them in the lab, Molly stops outside the door and presses up on her tiptoes to have a peek inside. She stops there and watches for a moment, not sure if she should walk in on their conversation. It might be pointless, anyhow. Sherlock never paid her any attention while on cases.

"It can't have been very difficult, could it?" John leans forward slightly into Sherlock's space and Molly's eyebrows lift in surprise.

Sherlock turns to him and grins. "I had to hide in a truck of sheep to cross the border."

John looks at him with amused shock and laughs. "You're joking. Sherlock Holmes in a truck full of sheep? I don't buy it."

"Completely serious," Sherlock promises, returning his attention to the scope. "Ah - look!"

John leans in even further, despite not being able to actually see what Sherlock does, and smiles a ridiculous smile.

Molly decides to leave them to themselves.

\--

To Lestrade's never-ending confusion, Sherlock manages to catch their murderer by the afternoon, even with only half of his attention focused on the task. As far as anyone can tell, he hasn't been away from John's side since the morning, and they haven't stopped talking for more than the two minutes it took for Sherlock to give Lestrade the full rundown.

Lestrade had been in touch with Sherlock for the time he was back and not living in 221B, and it'd been... Well, horrible, frankly. And not the usual _horrible_ that he associated with the man. He didn't complain, he didn't insult, he hardly even spoke but for a bit more information on Moran so that the case file could be completed. Suffice it to say - even if Lestrade would never actually say it aloud - Sherlock seemed _lost_. At the end of his line, really; he went through three years of hell equal to or even worse than John's, only to come back and have his best friend hate him for it. It made everything seem to be for naught.

Seeing them like this is relieving. Distracting, considering they're arresting their murderer and Sherlock still hasn't stopped talking, but relieving.

"At that point, I was smuggled in the back door and brought to a broom closet of sorts," Sherlock says, holding up his hands to give a general idea of the shape. "Not more than about three by five, must have been."

"How long were you in there?" John asks.

"Around three days," Sherlock tells him.

" _Seriously_?"

Sherlock nods. "There was a blanket and a pillowcase full of newspaper, and for the first day and a half they brought me food and water."

"And then?"

"They stopped showing up," Sherlock shrugs.

"Well, they didn't just _forget_ ," John scoffs.

"No, of course not. I thought at first that they'd turned against me, but they were stupid enough that they would have brought their boss to find me. After that, I realised they were probably forced out on a ring trade, so I sat and waited like they told me to."

John gestured to signal him to get on with it. Lestrade wanted to interrupt and remind them that they were _in the presence of their criminal_ and that they were _supposed to be working_ , but was either too intrigued himself or didn't have the heart to stop them talking. He didn't bother to puzzle it out.

"They showed back up on the fourth day at about two in the morning and wouldn't stop apologising; after I got them to shut up long enough to explain that I needed to hurry, they brought me down to the druglord's den and left me to do what I had to," Sherlock explains.

"You had to deal with him on your own?" John gawps.

"Of course," Sherlock snorts. "You think I could rally up any local allies? They all knew who he was, and he was terrifying. To them, at least."

"All right, all right. What then?"

"Well, the druglord knew who I was and why I'd be looking for him - there wasn't any way for me to disguise my motives or myself."

"You didn't just walk in, did you?"

Sherlock smirks, a bit too much like a self satisfied moron.

"You just walked in," John deadpans.

"You always told me I ought to be more straightforward," Sherlock points out. That makes John duck his head a bit, grinning in slight. Sherlock smiles at him. "Didn't you?"

"All right, prat, get on with the story," John laughs.

Lestrade looked back and forth between them, brow furrowed in slight confusion - as if their behaviour wasn't already out of the ordinary, now _giggling?_

Sherlock crosses his arms and leans against the wall behind them. "So, I walked right in - he was taken off guard at first, but he gathered his wits quickly, likely a bit too used to such situations, and pulled a gun on me. I talked to him - "

"That alone should have done him in," John mutters just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"I'll refrain from making a comment in return," Sherlock says warningly. John smirks.

"Anyhow," Sherlock continues, "I talked to him long enough to get him distracted enough to lower his gun, at which point I ran up, disarmed him, and hit him with his own gun."

"No way," John shakes his head.

"So now I have the druglord at gunpoint, and - "

"No _way!"_ John repeats.

Lestrade finally butts in as one of his officers pulls their criminal away in handcuffs. "Boys, I hate to interrupt your reconciliation, but we have things to discuss back at the Yard - "

"Coffee, John?" Sherlock offers over Lestrade's voice.

"Sounds great," John says, clapping his gloves hands together. Sherlock holds an arm out as if to say _after you_ and John walks over to the door, Sherlock just behind him.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaims.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," Sherlock turns back and grins.

Lestrade lets out an exasperated huff. "Tomorrow, nine o'clock, my office - both of you."

"As you wish," Sherlock calls on his way out the door.

\--

As it happens, Sherlock remembers John's favourite café and takes him there, ordering them both a coffee and sitting in the only available table of the crowded room. They both lean across the table as Sherlock talks, Sherlock adding in gestures and a few exaggerations to impress John, even though it's not necessary; the doctor is beyond impressed. He's nearly infatuated at this point. Simply the idea that Sherlock would go through all of this for him, for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade - it's spectacular. So much more than he expected of Sherlock.

"After Shanghai, with the information I got from Liang, Mycroft booked me a ticket to Moscow, where Odell - another accomplice of Moriarty's - had been hiding for at least five years, with the cover of an antique trader. He was more smuggler than anything, but my purpose was to find Moran, not bust his ring."

"Did you anyway?" John grins.

"Well, two birds with one stone," Sherlock smirks. "He was a coward, though - I wasn't there more than fifteen minutes before he told me everything he knew and begged for his life to be spared. Went on and on about how he never knew just how terrible Moriarty was, all that. So, I asked what he knew about Moran, and Odell gave him up right away. It didn't even matter; there was no one left at that point. No one left for him to run to, he must have known. Stayed close in touch with Moran. I got on the phone with Mycroft, had him get in touch with his connections, Odell was taken away, and I gave the information to Mycroft and awaited further instruction."

"That's..." John muses, trying to come up with the right word. He isn't sure he knows it, really. Everything Sherlock's told him has been just fantastic. Unbelievable. "Amazing," John says finally, smiling at the man across from him. Sherlock returns it, eyes crinkling fondly. He looks down at his coffee and absently lifts it to take a sip.

"It's a nice evening," he says. John tilts his head in inquiry. "Shall we walk home?"

"Oh," John says. "Yeah, that sounds great. You still have a bit more to tell me, anyway."

"I do, indeed," Sherlock says with a nod. "Plenty more."

"Let's get going, then," John says eagerly. "I want to hear the rest."

Sherlock gladly obliges, pushing out his chair and pulling his coat off the back, and picks up his near empty cup to toss it in a nearby bin. "I can't wait to tell you," he says to John. John grins again, a wide, stupidly happy grin that Sherlock is far too fond of, and leads them to the door.


	5. Day 5 - Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to sentiment and it turns out a bit funny. Nevertheless, here's one I know you've been waiting for. 
> 
> [Here is this art this entry is based off of.](http://www.reapersun.tumblr.com/post/36131569979)

By the time Sherlock finishes his story, he and John are less than halfway home and the sun is still shining bright enough to be counted as daylight. He hasn't counted on that, really; a darker sky would have made him feel more comfortable. Concealed; easier to hide things in the event that he'd need to. Nevertheless, as much as he tries, he can't will the sun down faster.

"Odell was in custody at that point, and we had Moran's location almost down to the coordinates," Sherlock says, still recounting the ending of his story. "I was told that I was no longer needed - "

"So you got into a row with someone in the government," John anticipated aloud.

"No," Sherlock says. John glances at him with a surprised expression. "No, I was given a ticket for the next flight back to England, and I went without protest. Happily, actually."

Slowing slightly in his walk, John stuffs his free hand into his pocket. "You wanted to come home," he says.

"Desperately," Sherlock affirms. "I was brought by police escort to the airport so that I could make the flight on time, and I went straight to Baker Street upon arrival, and - well, you already know how it ends."

"Fantastic," John compliments with a nod. His fingertips tap against his empty cup and manoeuvres around Sherlock quickly to toss it in a nearby bin. Taking a quick breath, Sherlock uses the moment as an advantage to turn around and stop right in front of him. John nearly runs right into him;  _christ_ , he's going to have to readjust to Sherlock's odd behaviour.

"John."

"Err - yeah?" John asks, taking a half step back. Sherlock swallows tightly and attempts to ignore the move, focusing more on where his proper sentences just ran off to.

His mouth opens and his jaw works momentarily, attempting to conjure up the right phrasing, eyes watching the pavement instead of the curious expression on John's face. "I... thought of you," he tries eventually. "Often." Sherlock's eyes dart up to John's, and John immediately sees that there's something in his expression begging to be understood; the same look he'd give ages ago when he'd attempt to communicate to John how much pain he was in without actually saying it.

This look is different, though; softer, for sure, and not pained. Innocent, almost; his bright eyes are quiet and imploring and his head is tilted just the slightest, hands lingering awkwardly by his side. John catches Sherlock's subtle glance from John's eyes to his lips, and now the meaning of his statement has started setting in, and he knows Sherlock is probably overanalysing the entire situation in that socially anxious way of his. He's not quite looking at John now, feeling like he's in the wrong, and John doesn't know a proper way to assure him that he's absolutely _not_ ; he's completely right.

And because he doesn't have the right words to explain either, and because Sherlock is his friend and everything more, John re-covers the half step he took away and moves closer until Sherlock's attention is caught again. John lifts a steady hand to curl around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock rests a hand on John's side, shifting closer and tilting down just the slightest.

John knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there's always been a lingering desire for _something_ like this, and he'd be lying if he said that three years apart didn't consist of dreams he'd never tell anyone about, not his therapist or Lestrade or even Sherlock. He has thought about this, Sherlock's arms enclosing him and Sherlock's lips against his, but the thought of it always shouted _impossibility!_ and left John frowning at Sherlock's lack of emotional capacity.

However, it's clear he was wrong; all of today, with Sherlock recounting how much he gave up for John and for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, proved him to be so much more capable than, really, anyone expected.

And now this; Sherlock's forehead is against John's and his lips are soft and hesitant, unsure about conveying what he feels but pushing ahead with it anyway. John brings his other hand up and cups Sherlock's cheek, more assured than he feels. Kissing your flatmate and best friend usually warrants some kind of following discussion - he's never been good with those in the first place, and this time around it would be with Sherlock. A talk about definitions and labels and boundaries and social decorum, but the thought of trying to get through the whole thing with the stubborn man makes John want to curl up and hide in the dark, so instead of thinking about it, he kisses Sherlock again, and again.

The sun's setting a bit faster now, and Sherlock thinks that he might kiss John until it's dark, in the middle of Regent's park, and that thought makes him smile against his best friend's lips, and Sherlock pulls him just the slightest bit closer in their embrace.


End file.
